


Inside the Prison

by Malfi1230



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Magnus Bane, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rescue, Rescue Missions, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:08:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malfi1230/pseuds/Malfi1230
Summary: What passes through Magnus's mind as he sits in Valentine's body, stuck in prison, while Alec works to save him.
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	Inside the Prison

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably unnecessary, but I wrote a short version of one of my other fics, "Prison Heist," from Magnus's POV. Enjoy! To read "Prison Heist," click here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24310054/chapters/58603654

“I know you’re listening! Please, I’m not Valentine. I’m Magnus Bane!”

Had he really just thrown his shoe at the security camera? Did he really think that would help? Realistically, he knew it was a childish move, and one unlikely to produce a more favorable result than his on-camera pleas, but it had felt oddly satisfying. Not satisfying enough to push the overwhelming panic to the back of his mind, but no coping mechanism could be perfect. 

The door to the cell room opened and a tall man with pale skin and black hair strode across the room. With an angry sweep of one arm, he slammed Magnus back against the cement wall. The impact was hard enough to bruise, but Magnus didn’t even feel it. The relief that swept through him overwhelmed sense and sensation. 

“Alexander! Thank God you are here. You have to listen to me…”

“No, you listen to me!” Alec interrupted savagely. “This sick game of yours’s is over.”

_He doesn’t believe you,_ said a quiet corner of Magnus’s mind. _Why the hell would he? To his eyes, you are a megalomaniac shouting desperate stories._

When Magnus had realized someone had switched his mind and consciousness with Valentine’s, his shock at finding himself in an enemy’s body had quickly been eclipsed by his horror at the inevitable consequences. To a warlock, hijinks like this happen. Not often, but far more frequently than for the rest of the population. The problem was that the switch had left him on the wrong side of a prison door, and none of his jailers would listen to the truth. Because the truth sounded completely demented, and everything Valentine said sounded manipulative.

“It’s not a game,” Magnus tried to explain, feeling at once the idiocy of his situation. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m not Valentine. I’m Magnus. Azaziel switched us with a curse… ‘unum ad unum…’”

_Latin? Really? Because Latin always keeps people’s interest._ Rarely was Magnus the victim of his own snarkiness, but it felt like that sort of day.

“You’re insane.” Alexander’s eyes were disgusted. Magnus tried to think. How could he prove this? If the positions were reversed, what would make him listen?

“You gave me that Omamori charm that I carry with me every day.”

Alexander froze. His face still looked angry and dismissive, but his eyes went wide, and he met Magnus’s gaze in shock.

Magnus breathed. At least he was listening. That was something.

“It was after our night in Tokyo.” Magnus reached out tentatively, but Alec slapped his hands away, and Magnus gave up, not wanting to break the fragile connection of the moment. “We were at the Palace Hotel,” he continued, desperately. “And we kissed on the terrace, and then you…”

“Stop.”

“You took me inside…”

“Stop!” Alec yelled it this time. Magnus let his voice trail off. Alexander looked confused. He peered at Magnus searchingly, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. “How do you know these things?”

“Because,” Magnus moaned, wanting to scream in frustration. “It’s me, Alexander.” 

Alexander stared at him. His expression was obstinate—still refusing to accept what he was hearing—but also frightened.

Magnus’s next words came out without premeditation. “The day of Valentine’s massacre, you told me that you loved me. So if you love me, please, please,” Magnus took a breath, trying to hold back tears. “You have to believe me.”

Alexander didn’t move. He had an arm out in front of him to block Magnus’s approach, and Magnus reached out without thinking to take his hand. It was the wrong move, because the moment he touched him, Alexander slapped him away and came out of his reverie. 

“Just… just stop.” Alec turned on his heel and left the cell.

_No. God no. Please don’t leave me._

“Alexander!”

The cell door slammed shut. 

Magnus was alone.

_________________

“Mr. Morgenstern, you know what that rune means.” The Inquisitor looked down her nose at him.

Mr. Morgenstern probably did know, and so did Magnus. He had studied the angelic runes enough to know that this one was going to cause him a world of unpleasantness. Magnus had known the moment the guards manhandled him into the metal chair and strapped him down with leather cuffs at his ankles and wrists that his imprisonment was taking a turn for the dangerous. The stele carving the mark was uncomfortable on its own—almost like a cat scratch on a sunburn—but the sting was nothing compared to what he knew was coming. 

An agony rune. Wonderful.

Once this started, how long would it last? He had no answers to give these people, and thus no way to stop the pain. They would ask questions that they needed another person to answer, and every failure to give them what they wanted would be accounted for in Magnus’s pain. How long would he last? How long would it take before his mind simply broke? 

Magnus thought of Alexander. This morning—an age ago—they had been jokingly arguing over whether one could tell the difference between conjured food and physically-prepared food. He had been challenging Magnus to a contest (“Pick anything! Literally anything! You conjure it, I’ll make it and I guarantee mine will be better—no, not crepes, I don’t have those down yet…”) and the two of them had ended up spilling their coffee in the bed in fits of laughter. It had been one perfect, domestic moment, snatched before the day began its madness. 

Alexander’s laughing face, perfect in the warm, abundant light of Magnus’s loft, was replaced in his mind's eye by the stony anger Alexander had shown earlier, when Magnus had begged him to believe his stupid, crazy story. Magnus kicked himself internally for what must have been the hundredth time. He’d failed. He’d had one chance to show Alec the truth, and he had failed completely.

“Do I have your attention, Mr. Morgenstern? Where is the Mortal Cup?”

_Please stop calling me that._

“Please, I’m not Valentine. I’m Magnus Bane. I know how this sounds, but Azaziel must have switched us. Please listen to me.”

The Inquisitor looked at him with faint amusement. “You’re inventive,” she said with a shake of her head. “I grant you that.” She gestured to the guard. “We can do this your way, if you’d like.” The guard, his face as taciturn as a stone pillar, stepped forward with the stele and drew it over the rune on Magnus’s arm.

And Magnus wasn’t in the cell anymore. He was standing before his mother’s limp body, peering uncomprehendingly at the sodden stain soaking the clothes over her abdomen, trying to understand why she was flopped there, boneless. Not even in sleep could a human be so still. 

Then he saw the moonlight reflect dimly over the knife, still held loosely in his mother’s inert hand.

The pain of the loss, the incomprehensible agony, had just enough time to register before he heard footsteps behind him. He whirled.

“What have you done?”

Magnus screamed. “Mama! Mama!”

As quickly as it had enveloped him, the memory vanished. Magnus was back in the cell, shivering and exhausted. His face felt wet, and he realized he was crying. Just once. They’d only done it once, and it was too much. _How much of that can I take?_

“Where is the Mortal Cup?”

“I don’t know, please, I don’t know. I’m not Valentine. Please...” Why was he bothering? No one was listening.

The Inquisitor was already turning away with pursed lips. “Again,” she ordered to the nearby guard, who reached for Magnus impassively.

Magnus didn’t struggle. What would be the point? He couldn’t move in the bindings. And even if he could, there was nowhere to escape to. No magic with which to fight. _They aren’t going to stop. I’m going to go mad. No one is coming, and I am going to go mad in this cell…_

Just before the stele touched his arm, the cell door opened with a bang, and Alexander practically fell into the room. 

He looked wonderful, and terrible. Strained and alert. He was slightly out of breath, and there was something desperate around the corners of his eyes. Magnus couldn’t help himself—even with Alexander’s earlier rejection still in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help the wave of warmth that swept over him, couldn’t help craning his head around the guard with the stele to get a better look. Especially if it might be the last look he’d ever have of this man. 

Alexander, Magnus realized, was doing the same. He was looking past the Inquisitor, past the guards, past the man with the stele, to meet Magnus’s eyes directly. 

Something in Alexander’s eyes clicked, and Magnus felt the familiar sensation of being recognized and seen. _He believes me. He knows me. Oh thank God…_

“What is the meaning of this?” The Inquisitor looked somewhat affronted, but mostly just shocked.

“Ma’am, there’s been a mistake,” Alec started. “We’ve been deceived. That’s not Valentine. You’re hurting the wrong person. That’s Magnus Bane.” 

The bliss of someone else saying those words—saying like it was a fact—was akin to the feeling a junkie must get during a high.

“Madame Inquisitor,” Jace said from behind Alec, “We have good reason to believe that Valentine and Magnus Bane have been… switched. Magically. One person’s essence in the other’s body.”

Magnus hadn’t noticed Jace’s shorter, broader presence behind Alexander. Was it possible that two people believed in Magnus’s identity? More likely Jace was simply backing up his parabatai. Say what you would about Jace Wayland—he was unerringly loyal. 

“Yes, I’ve just heard this story.” The Inquisitor laughed humorlessly. “It’s a very convenient account. Imagine what a conundrum we’d have, trying to sort out the truth of it. It would grant the prisoner quite a bit of time. Time to plan an escape while we chase our tails.”

_Off to a bad start._

“Ma’am, please.” Alexander’s voice was steady, but Magnus thought he could detect a mounting undercurrent of panic. “I thought the same. But I have spoken with... the prisoner." Alec’s eyes flicked briefly to Magnus, then back to the Inquisitor. "He knows things that only Magnus Bane could know. He speaks in the same manner as Magnus and uses all the same gestures. And his worst memory, conjured by the agony rune—he mentioned his mother. Magnus Bane’s worst memory involves his mother...” 

Magnus thought all of this sounded fairly logical. He’d have believed it. But then, his credence wasn’t really the issue.

“Plenty of people call out to their mothers when in pain.” The Inquisitor was unswayed. “The rest is theater. Stolen memories, educated guessing, and what must have been quite a performance. None of that constitutes proof.” 

“Please.” Alec’s steadiness was cracking. “How hard would it really be to look into? We could investigate—quickly!” He added this last word hastily, in response to whatever expression of exasperation the Inquisitor must have shown him.

“Ma’am, no one is suggesting we release the prisoner immediately.” Jace’s voice aimed for objectivity. “But torture is always a last resort. We can’t continue the interrogation if there is even the slightest chance we have the wrong person.”

“The interrogation will continue until we have what we need,” the Inquisitor responded crisply. “Or until the prisoner is no longer able to be useful.”

It was funny. Magnus’s own despair, his own bleak terror at these words, was echoed instantly in Alexander’s face. It was like looking at an emotional projection. 

“Ma’am, that can’t happen.” Alec yelled, then took a deep breath and began again, in a voice still taut, but at least no longer deafening. “Ma’am, I won’t allow it. As Head of the Institute…”

“As Head of the Institute or anything else, you are clearly personally compromised by the situation at hand. Not to mention outranked. By me. Guards,” she said over her shoulder. “Remove these two men.” 

Magnus watched Alexander throw a punch at the first guard to touch him and wanted to cry at the futility of it. He tried to call over the pandemonium, tried to tell Alexander to let it go, don’t struggle, it wasn't worth it, but neither Alec nor Jace seemed to hear him. Of course, Magnus was right. The Inquisitor had to call in extra guards, but Alec and Jace were eventually overpowered. As they were marched out of the cell, Alexander’s eyes found Magnus’s again. 

“It’s going to be ok,” he called, and his voice was like a port in a storm. “You’re going to be ok. Just hold on. I’m going to fix this.”

Magnus kept his eyes on him until the last possible moment. He then turned, slowly, back to the Inquisitor. She was looking at him with undisguised revulsion.

“What on earth did you do to that man?” 

Magnus shook his head.

“Where is the Mortal Cup?”

The next five hours were the longest of Magnus’s life.

________________

It had stopped. Some part of him knew that. Some part of him knew that there was no guard holding a stele over that fucking rune, and that he was alone in his cell.

The rest of him had retreated deep into his mind and couldn’t come out, despite his solitude. It didn’t matter that he was alone. He was still in a dangerous place. Enemy territory.

What was Alexander doing right now? If Magnus knew him at all, he was probably doing all in his power to free Magnus. Even though Magnus was starting to believe, deep down, that the effort was pointless, it still made him smile to think of it. Smile, and cry a little. He remembered Alec’s desperation earlier that day—his attempts to negotiate with the Inquisitor’s blunt authority. 

Dimly, he realized that he was slumped on the narrow cot; it was thin and hard beneath him but better than that damn chair. A blank, distant part of Magnus's mind, blissfully separate from the rest of him, was noting the oddity of living in another's body. The weight and bearing of Magnus's body felt all wrong. Lying on this cot was a completely unfamiliar sensation. His back was making contact with the mattress in slightly different places, bearing pressure in slightly different ways. His arms, where they fell over the side of the cot and dangled over the floor, were the wrong length. Try as he might, Magnus couldn't get used to it. It was like having something very small in his eye that he just couldn't remove; the irritation never quite left him, though he could do nothing about it.

The memory of his mother’s body and his stepfather’s anger played on a loop through his head. He tried desperately to replace it with something pleasant. _Think of Alexander. Arguments over crepes. Alexander holding your hand. That first night…_ “What are you afraid of?” 

_So many things, Alexander._

The cell door opened.

The Inquisitor walked in and looked down at him dispassionately. Or rather, like she was attempting dispassion. There was something woeful and broken behind her eyes.

“Did you know, I requested approval for your execution an hour ago.” She waited for some change in his expression, but Magnus was too tired to react. “I was refused. The council still thinks you can be useful. But you and I know better.” She sighed, then continued. “You killed my son, do you remember that? It’s been years ago now. I keep waiting for the pain to go away. But it just gets worse.” Magnus felt a trickle of compassion for this woman, for the first time all day, before she turned to a guard at her side. The guard was holding a long, cruel knife, which he handed to the Inquisitor. 

_Dear God. This is it. I am never going to leave this cell._

“Put him in the chair.”

__________________

Magnus knew he shouldn’t struggle. He knew there was no point. But some deep instinct in him that just wanted to live, just a few more moments, wasn’t convinced. So he fought against the guards as they wrestled him to the chair and strapped him down, but it was a pathetic effort. He was tired and weak, and every time he reached for the internal well inside him, where normally he found the flow of his magic like the clearest, freshest spring, he was shocked and shaken anew to find it empty. _No magic._

The Inquisitor looked down at him, eyes full of hatred and longing. _Longing for what? I would give it to you if I could._ But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. _No magic. No weapon. No escape. I am going to die._ And all he could do was weep, and scream internally. _Please, don’t let me die alone._

He thought of Alexander. Thought of his face. Thought of that one particular smile. The one Alec flashed across pillows late at night, and in the morning when the first of the morning light woke him. The one he gave when they had both spent a long day fighting an impossible fight, and yet had lived to tell the tale. The one that only Magnus got to see. Not even Izzy or Jace saw this one smile. Alec saved it for Magnus alone.

Magnus closed his eyes. _Forget the knife. Think of Alexander._

And again, unbidden, _I don't want to die alone._

Before his closed eyes, he somehow was aware of the Inquisitor, pulling the knife back, preparing to slash it towards his throat.

_I don't want to die alone._

Then, several things happened at once. 

He heard the door to his cell burst open with a metallic bang. His eyes flew open and he saw Alexander, Jace just behind him, standing tall in the doorway. His face—Magnus had never seen Alec look that way. “Angry” wasn’t correct. “Frightened” didn’t capture it. He looked driven. Like he was on fire within. 

He threw himself silently across the room, as if he had wings. With incredible precision and grace, he slid neatly between Magnus and the Inquisitor, between Magnus and the knife.

“No!” Magnus screamed into his gag. _Not Alexander._

Then he felt an odd sensation. His body—it wasn’t quite there. It wasn’t solid. And what was inside him wasn’t quite contained by his skin. Something rushed through him like a storm, and suddenly, without knowing when or how it happened, his body felt familiar again. It was his own. He looked down at his arms, and his skin had its normal caramel tinge. He moved his head an inch within the gag, and he could feel his hair catching and pulling against the chair.

He looked up, and Alexander smiled into his unglamored eyes. 

“There you are,” he breathed.

_______________

“Where is Valentine?” The Inquisitor demanded. “Where did he go? What is the meaning of this?”

Magnus barely heard her. He couldn’t look at her. His head couldn’t seem to settle. How had Azaziel’s spell been reversed? Had Alexander arranged that, somehow? Neither Alexander nor Jace, whom Magnus had not initially noticed behind Alexander, seemed at all surprised to see Magnus returned to himself. Unlike the Inquisitor, whose indignation had reached ludicrous heights.

Alexander had begun untying Magnus from the chair and permitted Jace to answer the Inquisitor’s question.

“Odds are, he’s on his way here, in the custody of the warlock Catarina and several of her associates.” _Catarina? How is she involved? What has gone on today?_ “Don’t feel the need to come upstairs, Madame Inquisitor. I’ll have a team meet the warlocks at the front of the Institute and bring Valentine down to this cell for you.” 

Alexander finished his work on the leather bindings, his face carefully blank. Magnus thought he detected a slight clench of the jaw when he saw the red welts the leather had left on Magnus’s skin, but the next moment, when Alexander gripped Magnus by one arm and pulled him brusquely to his feet, he thought he must have imagined it.

Magnus stood, and immediately, the world spun. Had he ever been so tired? Not in all the instances he had drained himself of magic had he been left feeling so weak and sick. 

_I cannot faint. I cannot collapse in front of these people. Get out. Get out and get home._

“Mr. Bane, if you’ll wait please. We need to debrief. I am still unsure as to how you came to be here…”

Trying not to betray any trepidation, Magnus flicked his eyes to Alexander, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. _Oh thank God._ Without giving anyone else so much as a glance, Magnus straightened his shoulders and walked out of the cell. He felt Alec and Jace on either side of him, like his own personal reinforcements.

Their presence turned out to be fortunate. As soon as he stepped into the hall, as soon as he could no longer feel the Inquisitor’s eyes on him, he felt himself stumble. He placed a hand on the wall, trying to steady himself. Try as he might, he couldn’t stop the world from spinning. Why did he feel so heavy? Why couldn’t he move? _Please, I have to get out of here. Help me._

Alexander had moved closer to him as he had stood, panting, trying to keep from collapsing on the concrete floor. It must have been clear that Magnus wasn’t going to be able to walk, because Alexander took his arm and drew it across his own shoulders. His other arm went around Magnus’s waist, tight and secure. To Magnus’s surprise, Jace came up on Magnus’s other side, taking Magnus’s other arm. Jace was a good man, and a good friend, but he had never struck Magnus as the gentlest of souls. Nonetheless, he took the rest of Magnus’s weight without comment or complaint, and his touch was kind. _This is good of him. I owe him for this._

With Alec and Jace practically carrying him, they stepped into the hallway. Magnus caught sight of Izzy and Clary, standing over what looked to be more of the Inquisitor’s guards, who clearly had not stood a chance against the two women. _They fought their way through? Did these four people essentially revolt to save my life?_ The list of people to whom Magnus was indebted was growing longer. 

Somehow, Alexander had led that revolt. Alexander, head of the Institute, believer in the Clave, inimitable solder, had organized a rebellion to save a warlock from execution. Magnus felt swamped with both pride and guilt. What had Alec sacrificed to pull this off?

“Magnus! Is he hurt?” Clary looked anxious, and Magnus wished she’d lower her voice. He’d gotten out of the cell on his own two feet—he didn’t want the Inquisitor or anyone else watching as he had to be dragged down the hall.

“Keep moving.” Alexander’s mind seemed to be working in a similar direction. Izzy and Clary were immediately on board; both women dashed to the elevator. The doors were opening by the time Alexander and Jace arrived with Magnus slung between them.

The elevator was silent, and in the silence, Magnus was aware of the ringing in his ears. That noise resolved itself into loud shouts, abusive invectives, _monster, demon, abomination._ His stepfather was still with him. 

Magnus’s stomach swam, and his head wandered. He couldn’t keep his mind in the here and now. Where was he? Was he in the elevator, with his boyfriend, or was he back in that damn cell? And where was his mother?

Alexander’s thumb, where it rested against Magnus’s arm, stroked his skin. The small gesture anchored him, and Magnus felt absurdly grateful.

The doors slid open, and they were met by cacophony. 

Good Lord, but there were so many Shadowhunters. Had he realized there were this many Shadowhunters in New York? And they all wanted something immediately. Their eyes peered suspiciously at Magnus, and they shouted questions. “Where did he come from?” “Who is in charge?” “Where is the Inquisitor?” “Is Valentine…”

“Step back!” Alexander voice issued forth like an edict from above. _I know that voice,_ Magnus thought with a hysterical internal giggle. _That’s his, “Head of the Institute” voice._ He liked to tease Alexander for it, but it seemed to work now. Alexander and Jace shouldered their way through the crowd, Izzy and Clary moving ahead to help clear a path. Alexander answered questions gruffly, using official language that conveyed almost no information but successfully put off the multitude. 

Outside, Magnus was shocked to see that the sun, though very low on the horizon, was still evident. How long had he been in the Inquisitor’s custody? Judging by the amount of light, it seemed to have been about eight or nine hours, but had someone said a week, Magnus would have believed him. Magnus recognized Catarina and several other warlocks, all of whom looked stunned to see him in his current state. _How are they involved?_ Alexander must have called Catarina to figure out how to switch Magnus and Valentine back. One, a (relatively) young warlock named Thaddeus, cursed under his breath, and Magnus knew he was going to have to prevent him from seeking some form of revenge on the Shadowhunters. Magnus stopped thinking about Thaddeus in the next moment, however, hopelessly distracted by the man who stood pinioned in magicked bindings between them.

Valentine, back in his own skin, glared sickeningly at Magnus, and Magnus had to restrain the urge to avert his eyes. _I didn’t enjoy my time in your body any more than I suspect you enjoyed your time in mine._ If he’d felt stronger, he would have enjoyed escorting Valentine back into captivity himself. If he weren’t feeling so damn shaky, watching Valentine’s face as he locked the cell door might have been worth revisiting the Inquisitor.

At the moment, however, the thought only made him even more tired. Who knew that was possible.

“Get him home,” Magnus heard Jace say to Alexander. He was removing Magnus’s arm from his shoulder, but his hands remained on Magnus, steadying him, until Magnus felt Alexander shift his full weight onto his own shoulders. “We’ll handle this.” Izzy stepped to Jace’s side with the look of a dark, avenging angel.

“Need a portal?” Clary offered, since Magnus clearly was beyond creating one himself.

Alec ushered him into the whirl of magic, and the world disappeared, replaced by his own loft.

_______________

The relief was so disturbingly acute. _My home. My belongings. My place._ He was on friendly ground again, instead of the hostile territory of the cell and the Institute. Instead of the angry, accusing gaze of the Inquisitor, and the blank faces of her henchmen with their steles wielded like weapons, Magnus felt only Alexander’s warmth and reassuring strength. Safe. He was safe.

The contentment almost immediately turned to lightheadedness. His legs had already felt like water; he had been holding them stiff through sheer force of will. Now that the retreat was successfully complete, Magnus seemed to be losing what control he had had over them. _Oh dear,_ Magnus thought distantly, as he felt himself begin to fall to the floor. _This might hurt a bit._

But the pain of contact never came. Before Magnus could hit the floor, Alexander bent and slipped one arm under his legs at the knees and drew him close. The other arm, still looped around Magnus’s back, now held him aloft instead of holding him upright. Alec didn’t say a word—didn’t exclaim or fuss, didn’t demand explanation for why Magnus’s legs had simply stopped working. He simply pulled Magnus into his arms like he did it every day of the week and carried him gently to the bedroom.

_Thank you,_ Magnus thought, his head against Alec’s chest. The beat of his heart was steady and even, reverberating through Magnus’s limp body. _Thank you for not fretting over me right now._ Magnus didn’t think he could handle Alec acting as nursemaid any more than he absolutely had to. He felt small and weak enough without someone bringing home just how vulnerable he had been today. How vulnerable he still was.

Why wouldn't it go away? His mother’s bloody body; his stepfather’s anger and disgust. The accusation of the scene. Monster. Devil. Mutant. Why did he keep seeing it? Why could he not escape it? No one was holding the stele to the rune. He was free of the cell, free of the Inquisitor’s unanswerable questions. Why wasn’t he free of the memory? 

He was on his bed. When had that happened? Alec was removing the prison uniform from his body with infinite gentleness. A part of Magnus knew that, under normal circumstances, he’d be choosing between a hundred different dirty jokes about the pleasure of Alexander undressing him, but right now, the action was tender rather than arousing. _Why are you so good to me? Why did you come for me?_

“You are an abomination. You killed your mother the day you were born. Your existence blotted her life.”

Magnus flinched. He could hear his stepfather’s words as if the man stood in front of him, shouting them at this moment. And he could see the look in his eyes just before Magnus used the demonic power he had inherited to burn the man where he stood.

Magnus blinked. Somehow, he was wearing a pair of soft linen sleep pants. Alexander was helping him shrug into one of his silk robes and lowering him back down to the pillows. Magnus was so deeply grateful for the help, and for the love he knew motivated it, but part of him flinched away from Alexander’s care. He shouldn’t need it. If he had to be a monster, then at the very least he should be a self-sufficient monster. Monsters shouldn’t get to have men like Alexander in their lives anyway. 

“Magnus. Hey, open your eyes.” Alexander was holding his hand. He kissed the knuckles, then turned it over and kissed the palm. Like it was something to be cherished. Magnus ached, and his insides clenched. 

“I know you are tired, and I promise you can sleep,” Alexander continued gently,” “But open your eyes just for a minute.”

Magnus opened his eyes. He knew they were unglamored, and part of him was obscurely ashamed, but he was so tired. Why was he so tired? Why did his mind feel broken? _If I can just sleep, maybe I can pull myself together. Maybe I can stop acting like a child._ His eyes were swimming and his vision was cloudy; he could see Alec’s shape, but couldn’t quite see the expression in his eyes. Pitying? Condescending? Disgusted? Magnus was grateful he couldn’t see it. _This man, who fights demons with knives and a bow and arrow. He would have faced execution with a more noble thought than,_ Please don’t let me die alone. 

“Do I need to call Caterina, or someone? Do you need medical attention? I need to know if…”

“No.” Magnus said it before he actually assessed the question. Did he need medical attention? Probably not. Apart from the chafing from the leather bindings, the torture hadn’t left a physical mark. The Clave was far too sophisticated for knives and beatings. The pain had all been internal. “I’m wiped out. Probably in shock. But nothing broken.” Suddenly, he couldn’t handle any more solicitude, no matter how well-intentioned. He pulled his hand out of Alexander’s and turned away. “Just need rest.”

He felt Alexander regard him for a moment, and part of Magnus wanted him to stay. Alexander’s presence always felt centering, even when he didn’t want to admit he needed to be centered. The other part wanted Alec to go far away. Even if Magnus had always been part demon, before today he had at least been a powerful part demon—something to be feared, if not quite respected. Now? _Oh, how the mighty had fallen._ What must Alexander think of him? _I wouldn’t want to be tethered to some broken demon mutant._

“Get some sleep.” Alexander’s voice was steady, and betrayed nothing. “I’ll be nearby if you need anything.” 

Magnus closed his eyes, hunting oblivion.

_______________

His mother’s face. She was so still; her face was slack and quiet. Despite the blood, she looked peaceful, and it made her unfamiliar. In life, she had always seemed conflicted, peering at Magnus oddly when she thought he wouldn’t notice. In retrospect, Magnus realized that the look was a sharp, discordant mixture of the truest love and the greatest trepidation. 

In death, she was free of the internal struggle. 

His stepfather. The shouting. The accusations. They stabbed him deep. Because even as a little boy, Magnus had known them to be true. And he so badly had wanted his life to be different. He had so profoundly wanted his mother’s love to be uncomplicated. And he had desperately wanted his stepfather’s affection, in any amount or form.

His mother’s body—his stepfather’s recriminations—the blood. It was too much. He couldn’t accept it all. Couldn’t hear one more word. His ears were ringing and he could feel his fingertips burning. Not with pain. With power. The power to make the words stop, once and for all.

His stepfather’s ranting halted, and his face showed horror while still frozen in the planes of anger.

“NO!”

“Hey, Magnus! Magnus, it’s alright.”

_No, it isn’t. God help me, nothing’s alright._

“Magnus, wake up. You’re ok. You’re safe. It’s over. I promise.” Someone had laid a hand on Magnus’s cheek and was tracing the line of his cheekbone lovingly.

_Don’t touch me. I’m dangerous. I’m wrong._

“Come on, it’s ok. Wake up.”

Magnus woke with a jolt. He was in a cell. Someone had locked him in a cell, tied him to a chair, and was forcing him into the ugliness of his past. The ugliness he thought he had sealed up tight inside himself. 

Though most cells didn’t include high-thread count sheets. 

Alexander’s face swam into view. He looked a little panicky.

Abruptly, Magnus sat upright. He stared around his bedroom and through the open door to the living room. His home. Not a cell, and his mother’s body was nowhere to be seen.

“Magnus?”

He took two deep breaths, trying to restore some amount of calmness. Alexander had already had to rescue him. He and Jace had already had to drag him bodily from a prison, too weak to stand. He couldn’t betray any more angst today. “I’m sorry,” he said, keeping his face turned away from Alexander’s enquiring eyes. His voice came out soft and trembling. _God, warlock, can’t you just man up for a second?_

The reply came shocked and quick. “What in the hell are you sorry for?” Alexander’s incredulity sounded real. “Seriously? You’re sorry?” 

It was the genuineness of Alexander’s implication that Magnus was blameless, that he had nothing to be sorry for, that cracked the surface. Without meaning to, he started to cry. 

He kept his head turned away from Alexander and tried to keep silent, but there was no hiding the tears that fell onto the coverlet. Instead of making some embarrassed noise and leaving the room, however, Alexander grabbed Magnus by the collar of his robe and pulled him firmly against him. He brought the other hand up to the back of Magnus’s head and secured him against his chest as Magnus broke entirely and sobbed. He hated the ugly, gasping, desperate sounds coming from him, and he hated how much he had needed Alexander to hold him, just as he was doing, without judgment or pity. Alexander said nothing, just whispered quiet nothings as one would to a child, while Magnus clung to his shirt and cried himself dry.

Eventually, he ran out of tears, and he remembered his shame. He pushed Alexander away, gently, and looked down at a nondescript corner of the bedroom. Anywhere but at Alexander.

“Do you want me to go?”

_Yes. No. I wish that I wanted you to go._ Magnus wasn’t feeling like the strong, silent type right now, no matter how much he wished he could emulate that sort of attitude. Instead of explaining all of this, he said only, “No.” It came out like a confession.

“Magnus,” Alec said softly. “I’m so sorry. This was my fault.”

_What?!?_ That made no sense. Magnus was finally shocked into looking up. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m so sorry.” This was the first good look at him Magnus had gotten since leaving the cell. Alexander looked miserable. Worse than miserable. Tortured. “I didn’t believe you. You told me what had happened. You tried to prove it to me. If I had listened to you then and there, I could have done something. I could have stopped the interrogation before it started.” Now Alexander looked on the brink of tears. “This is my fault.”

“None of this is your fault, Alexander.” It had never occurred to Magnus to blame Alec for any of this. True, a small part of him had been hurt by Alexander’s refusal to believe him immediately, but… well, there he had been, standing there in Valentine’s skin. After so many fights, so much bloodshed, and so many atrocities, it was hard to look at that man and believe anything he had to say. Far easier to believe that he was trying to trick you. In retrospect, it was a miracle Alexander had given any thought to Magnus’s plea. 

“I saw the beginning of the interrogation.” Alec was saying now. Magnus looked up, startled. “I was in the security office. I wanted to watch the cellblock feed. I wanted to see how you acted when I wasn’t right there in front of you. I was testing you.” 

_That must have been… illuminating._ “What gave me away?”

“What you yelled. Your worst memory.” Alexander looked at him apologetically. Probably sorry to bring up something so painful. _Oh, you have no idea._ And hopefully he never would. Somehow, Magnus had tricked Alexander into thinking he was worthwhile. The last thing he wanted to do was shatter that illusion now with the recollection of how he had murdered his own stepfather.

Alec was looking at him curiously, so Magnus began speaking quickly. “Alexander, truly, none of this is your fault. What happened was crazy. Wildly unbelievable. No one in their right mind would have so much as considered it. Certainly no one else in that entire Institute did. But you did. If you were testing me—well, you did what you had to do. And you saved my life.”

“You should be furious with me,” Alec argued. Alexander—ever shouldering responsibilities that rightfully belonged to others.

“Well, I’m not.” Magnus was ready to be done with that thought. He also did not want to convey any of what he was really feeling, but something about the way Alexander was looking at him hooked the truth out—or at least, part of it. “I’m… scared. Still. And I’m furious with myself for being so.” _Scared is putting it mildly. I’m terrified._ “Alexander, you go out and fight demons every day, without magic. You face death without blinking. You make it look easy, even when I know it can’t be.” Magnus took a moment to study Alexander, recognizing the familiar twin sentiments of affection and awe. These feelings only enhanced his chagrin at his own behavior. “I was locked in another’s body today. I had no magic. I was trapped and helpless, I was constantly in pain, and I was told I was going to die. And all I kept thinking was, 'I don’t want to die alone.'” He shrugged. “It wasn’t a courageous thought. I feel pathetic. I don’t like that. It feels wrong.”

“Probably because it is wrong.” Magnus tensed, readying himself for rebuke, but he should have known better. Alec continued, “You’re wrong about this. Nothing about what you just described strikes me as pathetic at all.” Alec laughed, but the sound was kind. “Vulnerable is different from pathetic. And you don’t have to enjoy feeling vulnerable. Being you, it can’t happen too often.” He reached out and took Magnus’s face between his hands, forcing Magnus to look at him. Again, Magnus wanted to hide, but Alec wouldn’t let him look elsewhere, and so he met Alexander’s eyes. “Listen, let’s get the obvious out of the way. No one worth anything is thinking any less of you for anything that happened. I have had three text messages from Izzy, five from Clary, and two from Jace, all of them asking me to apologize to you on their behalves. Every one of them has called me to check on you. They all feel sick that we let this happen.” Magnus was absurdly touched, and started to look down again, but Alec held his head securely. “No, listen to me. You are the bravest, strongest person I know. What happened in that cell doesn’t touch that. And you risk your life all the time. Just as often as I do. I’ve watched you drain your magic down the dregs to help others—to save lives. I’ve watched you face death with courage and steel.”

_You didn’t watch me kill my stepfather. Thank God for that._ “Alexander…”

“No, listen to me.” Alexander was speaking now with the fervor of a preacher. “Every time you head into a fight, you are risking so much more than I am. I risk my life—80 or 90 years at best. You risk forever.” _Don’t say that. Don’t talk about your death. You aren’t allowed to die._ Alexander continued, breezing past the notion of his mortality. “You do it all the time, because you have decided there are things that are more important than your forever.” He gave Magnus’s head a gentle shake. “Do you think anyone else could have withstood hours of torture without any reaction? Do you think I would have taken feeling doubted, and rejected, and alone any better than you?” _Probably,_ Magnus thought, but Alec clearly disagreed. “What happened in that cell would have broken me,” Alec said passionately. “And you are not broken.”

_Am I not?_ Magnus didn’t have time to answer his own question, because suddenly, Alexander was kissing him, with urgency and strength and feeling, as if begging Magnus to believe what he had just said. Magnus kept his eyes open for a moment, and he thought he could see signs of strain in Alexander’s face—dark bags under his eyes and tension in his brow. _He was scared today,_ Magnus realized with a shock. _Maybe as scared as I was. Scared for me. Scared to lose me._

Magnus closed his eyes and relaxed into his lover. He still wasn’t sure he accepted most of Alec’s words, still felt a little broken and pathetic, but if a man like Alexander believed in a man like Magnus enough to say them, then he had to be somewhat worthwhile. 

Alexander held him until his exhaustion overwhelmed him. The smell of Alexander’s aftershave followed him into his sleep, and he had no more nightmares.


End file.
